


Home

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO Dark!verse [8]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Parenting, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, M/M, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Self-Lubrication, Sibling Incest, Smut, Stancest - Freeform, Trauma, Vomiting, by everyone really like jesus, referenced father/son incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: It's painful, settling into a home away from New Jersey and without Pops.orFord finds out that Sherman misses his father.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a year ago for one person after one, small conversation.

Somehow, between growing up on the docks of New Jersey and going off to his fancy school, Ford forgot how to bait a hook. Oh, he can get a worm on it, sure, but the fish just snag the snack and bail. It's hilarious to see him all frustrated and riled up. Mr. Big Shot Genius being screwed over by some scalie bastards.

“How? They don’t even have a proper frontal lobe!” Ford pulls his pole back and tries to cast out again. He goes too hard, the hook barely gets any line at all, and the rod makes a sharp, whipping sound like a muted crack. Stan’s shoulder twitches.

“Hey, Pointdexter, relax.” Stan bumps his shoulder against Ford's making him fumble the rod. “Fishing is supposed to be relaxing,” he says. Ford scowls at the lake.

“How can I relax when I'm being outsmarted by a limbless, water bound craniate!” Ford pulls the rod back and whips it forward again. Stan looks back Shermie to check in on him. Shermie’s rod is on the floor of the boat and the kid’s squeezed against the boat’s front.

“Seriously, Ford, it’s no big deal.” Stan jerks back sharply when Ford turns a vicious glare at him.

“I have several PhDs, Stanley, I won’t be thwarted by a damn fish!” Ford tries to cast again. Stan doesn’t comment on the half eaten worm on the hook or the poor technique.

“Stanford,” Stan reaches out again, squeezing his brother’s shoulder softly.

“This is ridiculous!” Ford throws to rod to the deck. Stan hears the rustle of a jacket. When glances behind him Shermie has his jacket over his head.

“Ford, seriously.” Stan gives his brother a little shake. “Relax.” Ford shoves him off and stomps to the motor.

“This is pointless,” he says and starts at the rip cord.

“Ford, stop!” Stan says and scrambles after him.

“This was a useless endeavour and a waste of my time.” Ford snarls when Stan grabs his arm (Stan didn't think it was a waste of time; he was having fun).

“Ford, the anchor.” Stan pulls at his brother. Ford growls but stops. “We can go, but ya gotta calm down.” Stan gives his brother's arm a squeeze. “Okay? Just some dumb fish.” Ford lets out a long, angry breath.

“You're right,” Ford smiles sheepishly at Stan. “Sorry.” Stan grins back.

“It's late anyway. And I, uh. Gotta check on Sherm’s.” Both of them look at where Shermie's still hiding under his jacket.

“Oh.” Ford's face does something complicated.

“Yeah, gotta get ‘im home,” Stan says lightly.

“I'll,” Ford looks around the boat, at anything but Shermie. “I'll get the anchor.”

“Sounds good,” Stan waves over his shoulder and sits next to his son. “Hey, buddy.” Shermie doesn't say anything, just keeps hiding under his jacket. “Knock knock,” Stan waits.

“...Who’s there?” Shermie peeks shyly at Stan.

“Boo.”

“Boo who?”

“No need to cry, Sherms.” Stan knocks his shoulder carefully against what he hopes is Shermie's. Shermie is quiet a long moment before he pulls the jacket down.

“That's dumb,” he says with a frown. Stan laughs and rubs his neck.

“Yeah, not one of my best.” He admits. Shermie glances nervously around Stan and when Stan follows his gaze he can see Ford watching them. Shermie scoots closer into Stan's side, keeping his eyes on Ford and Ford seems to do his best not to look at Shermie. Stan wraps an arm around Shermie and tries to plan dinner now that fish is off the menu.

 

Dinner is a little tense with Ford being embarrassed and Sherms being nervous, but Stan just fills up the silence with chatter, pulling words out of his boys until everyone can relax and enjoy their mac and cheese.

“Hey, Sherms, ya eat the food, not yer lips, what's wrong?” Stan asks and _tinks_ his spoon on Shermie's plate. Shermie stops biting his lip, pushes his noodles around with gross squelching noises.

He doesn't look up at first.

“Stan?” Shermie's voice is small when he finally looks up. His eyes are bright and wet.

“Woah, hey, Sherms what's wrong?”

“I…” Shermie's voice cracks. “I miss Daddy.” Shermie looks like he's begging Stan for something and Stan can't figure out what that is because his heart just did a backflip into an ice cube tray.

“Shermie--”

“Never,” Ford says and Stan’s whole body freezes at Ford's icy tone. “Say that again.”

“I-I’m sorr--” Shermie shrinks into his chair, eyes wide.

“Never mention him in my house.” Ford’s looming over the table and Shermie looks closer to tears and Stan moves, chair screeching as he jumps up. (He can’t get between Shermie and the looming, scary thing, but he can try and be a bigger target.)

“I-I-” Shermie stutters over the words; he’s breathing too fast, trying not to cry.

“That _bastard_ ,” Ford spits the word like a stone, “is dead.”

“ _Stanford_!”

“You’re lying.” Both of them snap to look at Shermie, standing now, too. (Shermie’s so small and trembling like a bird in the snow). “My Daddy’s not dead!” Shermie’s face is wet and red when he looks at Stan. “Tell him! Stan, tell him!”

“Shermie,” Stan swallows a rock and his throat hurts.

“Stan,” Shermie’s voice is hoarse and broken. (God, he’s so small.) “Stan, I want my Daddy.” Stan kneels to the ground and pulls Shermie to him; tries to squeeze the wracking sobs away.

“Filbrick Pines is dead,” Ford says flatly. Shermie makes a horrible noise like he’s been popped, air leaking out in a wail.

“Shut up, Stanford.” Stan glares at his brother and shudders at the cold and hollow face looking back. Shermie bangs against Stan’s chest and pulls away.

“I hate you!” He screams. “I want my Daddy!”

“Shermie!” Shermie wrenches out of Stan’s grasp and bolts, sobbing, small feet heavy, punctuated like a drum line with a slammed door.

“He had to know, Stan,” Stan startles out of his skin when Ford puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up, Stanford,” Stan snaps hollowly.

“Come on, Stan.” Ford tugs at Stan’s shoulder and Stan slowly pulls himself up. “It had to happen.”

“I gotta talk to him,” Stan says and shrugs his brother off.

“I guess I’ll get the dishes, then,” Ford sighs after a quiet moment. (Stan can’t stand to look at him; he can’t even glare at him.)

The door to Shermie’s room is closed. Stan loiters in the hall, unwilling to push his son too hard, but unwilling to let him mourn alone and afraid. (It’s not the first time Shermie’s run off to hide in his room, but it’s always been Stan keeping Pops away until everyone calms down.)

“Knock knock,” Stan’s voice is scratchy, scratchier than it should be. He doesn’t expect an answer and he doesn’t get one, so I tries the knob. It’s unlocked. (Because locked doors mean you’re hiding something and you don’t hide anything from Pops. Sherms is a smart kid.)

The room is small and dark. A tiny lump is crying in the corner with a blanket over his head and hands over his ears.

“Shermie?” Stan whispers, quiet enough that his voice doesn’t crack like it wants to. The lump doesn’t respond. Stan sits next to Shermie on the cold ground and curls his arms around his knees like a kid. “I’m sorry.”

 

It takes an hour for Shermie to come out and Stan’s pretty sure that he only comes out because he’s hungry.

Shermie is sniffling and rubbing as his red face with one hand and clasping Stan’s with the other. (His hand is so small and soft in Stan’s big, clumsy fist).

Ford did a shitty job cleaning up, the idiot. The pot’s soaking in the sink like Stan burned the noodles and cheese or something (even though he hasn’t done that in years). The plates and forks, at least, are drying on a towel, but Stan is pretty sure the sponge is bone dry and without the distinct scent of chemical lemon, Stan is damn sure Ford just rinsed everything and called it good.

Stan makes a note to mention dishwashing the right way. (Genius like Ford should now that shit anyway.)

Stan makes toast with butter. He wants to sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar to make it a special treat, something to cheer Shermie up, but the sugar jar is filled with salt from Ford’s last attempt to be helpful with groceries. Stan isn’t, honestly, sure how much difference the sugar would make, as Shermie pulls tiny pieces of his toast away to nibble at sadly while warms up a glass of milk.

“I miss Daddy,” Shermie say miserably, tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes again. Stan sighs when he places the warm mug on the table.

“It's hot,” he cautions and takes a seat next to the kid. Shermie slowly drags the mug toward himself.

“I just want my Daddy,” Shermie mumbles, slurps the hot milk without enthusiasm.

“I know, kid,” Stan runs a hand through his growing mullet and tugs at the splitting ends where it tangles around his fingers.

When Shermie finishes his drink, Stan leaves the mug in the sink with everything else to tackle in the morning.

The kid starts to droop at the table and lets Stan pick him up even though Shermie is too old to be babied. Stan thinks today has been the kind of day that a little babying is okay. (Like tucking Shermie into bed and, maybe, kissing his forehead as the kid’s eyes slide shut.)

“Does he hate me?” Shermie asks sleepily. Stan startles, sure that Shermie had been on the verge of sleep.

“Who?” Stan asks.

“Uncle Ford.”

“Why do ya--no, he doesn’t hate ya! He’s just,” Stan huffs. “He’s just a jerk sometimes.”

“He’s scary,” Shermie confesses sleepily.

“He’s not scary,” Stan says as he pets Shermie’s hair back from his forehead. “He’s actually a huge dork.” Stan whispers, like he’s telling a secret.

“I miss Daddy,” Shermie says again. Stan groans, leaning close to kiss his son again.

“Yeah, kiddo, I know,” he whispers. “I think...I think I do, too.”

 

Stan doesn't want to go to the bedroom he shares with Ford; he doesn’t want to deal with whatever mood Ford is going to be in. (And, Stan feels weird, too, heavy and cold.) He considers sleeping on the couch, but he’s tired and the couch is small and Ford is the one who messed up.

Ford is resting snuggly in their small bed in his undershirt and briefs, writing in one of his journals even though he knows that gets ink on the sheets.

“That was a shitty thing to do,” Stan says in greeting and stomps to the closet as all of his anger returns. He jerks his shirt over his head, growling when it gets tangled around his shoulders. “Shermie cried himself to fuckin’ sleep, I hope yer happy.” Stan throws his shirt in the direction of the hamper. He'll clean it tomorrow. Or not. Let Ford deal with it.

“I'm not sorry,” Ford says calmly as a page rustles. “He had to find out sooner or later.”

“Or never,” Stan snaps over his shoulder. Ford's eyebrows form a wrinkle where they're trying to meet over his eyes. “You told him his dad is dead!”

“It's not a tragedy,” Ford snorts, scribbles something into his journal. He looks up in surprise when Stan wrenches the damn thing from his hands and throws it across the room. “Hey!”

“Yer a real piece of work, Stanford,” Stan snarls into Ford's scowl.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.” Ford carefully pushes himself up until he’s sitting instead of lounging.

“Jesus, Ford.” Stan tugs roughly at his hair in frustration. “You told Shermie Pops is dead.”  
“Yes, I know,” Ford says. “The man was a monster, Stan.”

“He was a real bastard, yeah, but Shermie loved him.” Stan sighs and sit on the edge of the bed by Ford’s knees. “And he was good to Sherms. He was,” Stan clears his throat; it suddenly feels thick and sore. “He took care of us, Ford.”

“He made you a housewife,” Ford spits and Stan is forced to turn his body to see Ford’s thunderous expression.

“Somebody had to--after Ma,” Stan snorts and shakes his head. “Christ, Ford, it’s called earnin’ yer keep. No different’n what I do here.”

“Don’t!” Ford cuts off a shout with a growl. “He had no right,” Ford mutters darkly. Stan exhales sharply through his nose and scoffs.

“Ford, look. I know you hate him, but I was lucky. No, shuddup,” Stan snaps at Ford before his brother can interrupt. “People like me, we aren’t normal. Pops took care of me and Shermie. And,” Stan swallows as his throat gets tight again. “Ya know I, uh. I just remembered.” Stan feels his face pulling up into a tight smile. “This one time me and Sherms, we got up real early--it was Shermie’s idea. He wanted to surprise Pops with breakfast in bed, ya know? Saw it on TV.” Stan’s eyes are burning again.

“Stan.”

“It didn’t, hah, it was a mess.” Stan pauses to breathe. “I was so worried when Pops found us but he took us out for pancakes. Didn’t yell or nothin’. Made us clean it all up first but. It wasn’t that bad, okay? Pops was good to Shermie.” Stan swallows. “Like the pancakes. He was a good dad.”

“He was a monster, Stan,” Ford’s voice has a terrifying darkness to it that Stan can’t face. But, he can’t shut up, either.

“I think...Ford,” Stan hesitates a moment as his breath hitches. “I think I miss him.” After a moment, when Ford says nothing, Stan starts to tense up.

“You,” Ford hisses and then stops. Stan risks a glance at his brother.

Ford is terrifying when he’s angry. The Pines men all have rough tempers; it’s in their blood. Hell, Stan’s seen Ford literally kill a man. Stan watched his brother choke the life out of Pops and then calmly drive the three of them, Stan, Ford, and Shermie, across state lines without ever looking back. Stan knows that Ford would never hurt him; Ford isn’t anything like Pops. But, Stan is scared of Ford.

“Fo--” Ford’s hand shoots out and clamps around Stan’s arm in a vice when Stan tries to put some distance between them.

“How could you,” Ford growls and tugs Stan forward instead of back. Stan flails to catch himself before he faceplants into Ford’s crotch.

“Ford, I’m sorry--” Ford’s leaving bruises; Stan knows he is.

“Don’t,” Ford wraps one of his strong arms around Stan’s shoulder and squeezes Stan to his chest. “Don’t say that, Stan.” Ford sounds like he’s begging as he shoves his face into Stan’s neck. “Don’t think it.” It’s uncomfortable, the way Ford is crushing Stan, and Stan can’t really breathe.

“Ford, uh,” Stan maneuvers his free arm to awkwardly pat-push Ford. The hand on Stan’s arm snakes up to tangle in his hair, instead.

“Stan,” Ford holds Stan’s head still and starts to kiss his jaw.

“Uh.”

“Stan,” Ford sighs a hot breath across Stan’s neck and ear making him shiver.

“ _Mh_ .” Stan bites his lip to stifle the small moan until Ford brings his other hand to cradle Stan’s face. “ _Hn_.”

“I can’t stand it,” Ford whispers between gentle pecks that get toothier. “I can’t,” Stan moans louder when Ford sucks hard at his neck and trails one of his six fingered hands across Stan’s back. “I’d kill him again,” Ford suddenly shoves them both down so that Stan has to blink rapidly to orient himself.

“ _Ah_ !” Stan shouts when Ford leans down and _bites_ into Stan’s shoulder; Stan’s hips buck and his toes curl. “Fuck, Sixer.”

“I’d,” Ford pulls back to stare down at Stan. The dork’s glasses are sliding dangerously down his nose. Stan reaches up to pull them off. Ford catches his wrist and kisses it. “Stan.” Ford takes his glasses back and twists around to put them on the nightstand. Stan gropes for a part of Ford to grab. He gets a fistful of Ford’s shirt.

“Shit, Ford.” Stan squirms a little as Ford's movements grind down on him. Ford turns back to him to rest his hand on Stan’s chest.

“Forget him. If you love me forget him.” Ford shimmies back, and his shirt stretches where Stan refuses to let go. Ford starts to work at the button Stan’s jeans. His hands are surprisingly steady. “I'll make you forget.”

“Yeah?” Stan reaches down to help, he can't lift his ass off the bed to help with Ford on him, but he wiggles enough to get his pants and underwear to his thighs. Ford yanks them the rest of the way off.

“Yes.” Ford leans back over Stan but goes for his chest instead.

“Ah, _shiiiit_ ,” Stan squirms at the mouth getting spit all over his hairy man tit. “Come on.” Stan tugs at Ford's shirt. Ford pulls back with a nip. “Hey!” Stan shudders from the feeling and Ford's dark, hungry eyes. Ford grumbles but pulls away again to strip his shirt and his briefs. Ford winds up knee-walking backward so that when he finally gets his wet, red dick out, Ford is kneeling over Stan’s knees and staring shamelessly at Stan’s less impressive crotch.

It’s unfair that Stan has gotten fat and soft like a girl but hairier than Ma’s old hair brush. He wants to pull his knees together like he has something to hide. He bite his lip, instead.

“See something?” Stan asks, shifting to get more comfortable under the scrutiny. It makes his hips wiggle until one of Ford’s hands grabs him at the tender crease between his inner thigh and hip so that his thumb brushes the coarse pubes. Stan winces at that, mouth open to apologize or something, when Ford just crams his fingers right into Stan’s crack, over his hole. Stan’s whole body freezes (because _Ford gonna just shove them all in and it’s gonna hurt and_ ) until Ford just presses and then drags up.

“You’re already wet,” Ford says roughly as he spread Stan’s slick up.

“Not my fault,” he says.

“I make you like this.” Ford says and drags his fingers down and back up again and making Stan squirm. “I make you wet.” Ford is to busy watching his fingers to notice Stan’s frown.

“Ya gonna fuck me?” Stan asks instead of answering. Ford looks up at him; his hand rest in a cradle for Stan’s balls.

“I will,” Ford rumbles and Stan moans.

“Fuck.”

“Soon,” Ford shifts and wiggles and forces Stan to spread his feet wide and bend his knees so that Ford can settle on his stomach between them. It doesn’t look like a comfortable position.

“Ford, yer goin’ the wro _ooooh_ .” Stan grabs the sheets on either side of him as Ford wraps one wet hand around Stan’s dicks and pumps up once and then squeezes gently right under the head. “Oh, shi _iiiiih._ ” Stan closes his eyes and forces himself up to his elbows. “Ford.”

“Lay down,” Ford’s words are hot over Stan’s dick making it twitch. Ford smirks a little when he sees it. “I’m going to take care of you.” Ford’s hand drags from Stan’s thigh to the base of his stomach and pushes insistently. “I’ll always take care of you.” Stan groans again and flops heavily back onto the bed.

“God, yer such a-- _oh_!”

“Hm.” Ford hums and licks the head of Stan’s dick again. “I want you to be happy.”

“Shaddup.” Stan doesn't know what to do with his hands. He wants to grab Ford's hair, he thinks, but tries to claw holes in the sheet instead.

Ford doesn't put Stan’s dick in his mouth; Stan knows first hand what kind of experience that is and he's not a fan. Instead, Ford licks and mouths at the base, the shaft, the head, and slit. It’s hard to hold still with Ford alternating between squeezing and jacking his dick while his other hand is rubbing up the inside of Stan’s thigh and down. It’s almost sweet.

“Fuck, Ford!” Stan’s hips leave the bed with a jerk. Ford startles, but resumes to suck at Stan’s balls like they aren’t sweaty and covered. “You don’t go _-aah_ -dda do that.” Ford pulls back and sets both hands on either of Stan’s legs.

“Roll over,” Ford walks back on his knees enough to give Stan space to carefully roll over with a shudder.

“Pillow?” Stan reaches a hopeful hand backward. “What?”  
“It’s going to get stained,” Ford complains as he passes Stan a pillow that, judging by the lumpiness, is Stan’s. Stan shrugs before he wiggles the pillow under his hips enough that his dick is now trapped against his naked gut.

“You don’t do laundry.” Stan wiggles again just to enjoy it. “So, are you gonna fuck me, or?” Ford huffs at him and Stan can feel the bed shift until Ford seems to be flat on the bed between them. Stan starts to turn to see what the hell Ford is doing. “Wha--” Stan gasps as he clutches the bed sheets again, eyes going wide. “ _Shit_!”

Ford’s pulls the cheeks of Stan’s ass apart and shoves his face in there. Ford sucks Stan’s taint; he licks up to Stan’s hole. Stan’s hips jerk violently away from Ford’s tongue.

“Relax,” Ford’s breath is too hot on Stan’s skin and when it leaves, Stan is cold.

“Shit!” Stan doesn’t get a chance to snipe back because Ford dives back in. Stan grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. “Shit, shit, shit, _shit_ !” His ass is trying to squeeze shut or relax open or something. He doesn’t know what it wants to do as he shoves his face into the sheets. “Fuck.” His voice is muffled. Ford hums something like a growl against Stan’s ass. “ _Oh_ , fuck.” Stan wants to make a noise, a loud noise, _something_ , when something hot-and-wet-and-soft pokes at his hole and wiggles _in._

Ford has officially stuck his tongue up Stan’s ass. He is currently eating Stan out like Stan isn’t slimy and hairy and gross. Ford’s tongue is plunging in and out, and Stan almost screams when Ford presses his lips against Stan and sucks.

Stan’s shaking and he can’t breathe. Even when he pulls his head up to gasp for air he can’t get enough; he just keeps panting.

“Ford,” Stan gasps. Ford hums; he _smirks._ Stan can _feel_ him smirk. “Stop, Ford,” Stan hates how much he sounds like he’s whining, but he needs Ford to stop so he can breathe. “Stop, stop!” Stan pulls away; Ford immediately grabs his thighs as if to keep him still.

“Stan.” Ford sounds confused and angry. Stan presses his forehead into the mattress; he tries to get his breathing back under control.

He feels weird; he feels like everything is too much. The bed sheet is too rough; Ford’s hands are too hot and too wet. His head feels heavy and light at the same time.

“Fuck me,” he says; the words feel weird in his mouth. “Just, come on. Stop--” Stan grabs the sheets as hard as he can. “Come on.”

“Stanley,” Stan flinches when Ford gently rests his hands on Stan’s back. “Are you okay?” Stan nods into the sheet; they’re scratchy and burn against his forehead. It feels nice so he rubs his stubbled cheek into the sheets, too.

“M’fine,” Stan mumbles. “Come on.” Stan’s muscles twitch under Ford’s hands as his brother strokes down Stan’s sides. “Come _on._ Ford, please.” His skin itches.

“I don’t,” Ford hesitates and presses his thumbs into the small of Stan’s back.

“ _Ah_ , Ford,” Stan whines. He twists his fists into the sheets until it hurts. “Please.”

“Okay,” Stan feels the bed shift as Ford moves. He feels the roughness of Ford’s stubble and the softness of his lips as Ford kisses Stan’s back. His nerves feel backwards because the kiss hurts. “Sh.”

“Come _on_ !” Stan shoves himself backward. He’s being wound tighter and tighter like one of the cheap cuckoo clocks Pops used to sell and he needs it _to stop_ . “ _Ford_!”

“Okay, okay,”  Ford huffs and strokes Stan’s sides again. “Just, calm down.”

“Hurry up!” Stan snaps. He reaches back to finger himself open; if Ford wants to be a damn tease then Stan will do it himself. “Damn it!”

“Jesus, what's gotten into you?” Ford knocks Stan’s hand away.

“You, if you hurry the fuck up!” Stan grumbles and then moans when Ford finally shoves a thumb in. “Ooo _ooh.”_ Stan’s whole body slumps. He grabs the sheets again and shudders. “Yeah.” Ford kneads the base of Stan's back as he pushes his thumb in and out.

“Is this what you wanted?” Ford's voice is low and rough. Stan’s toes curl when Ford rubs at his rim and pulls down like he's trying to pull Stan open.

“ _Yes_ ,” Stan moans into the mattress. “ _Hah, hah_.”

“God, Stan,” Ford pulls his thumb out and replaces it with two of his thick fingers before Stan can whine at the loss. He muffles a shout instead. “You're so,” he moans and that makes Stan moan, too. “I want to keep you like this forever.”

“ _Nn_ ,” Stan chews in his lips; he shudders and clenches around Ford's fingers. “Ford, please, come on.”

“You really want me to fuck you,” Ford's fingers shove deeper and bend and wiggle. “You want me to fuck you into this mattress and fill you up,” Ford growls and suddenly there are teeth at Stan’s shoulder. “Fuck you until you're leaking my cum and everyone,” Ford pants and bites. “Everyone knows you're _mine._ ” Stan muffles a wail when Ford  presses roughly against that sweet spot and rubs. Stan’s ass spasms like it's trying to milk Ford's fingers. “Shit, you do.”

“Ford, please,” Stan grits his teeth when Ford pulls his fingers free and his ass is clenching at nothing. “Fuck, please!”

“Sh, sh,” Ford purrs against Stan’s neck. “Stan, it's okay. I'll take care of you.” Ford pulls back and spreads Stan’s ass cheeks. “I'll fuck you so hard that all you'll be able to think of is my dick.” Ford presses his fingers back in and thrusts. “Just my cock filling you up and taking you.”

“Promise?” Stan pulls himself together enough to look over his shoulder. He swallows thickly and shivers when Ford chuckles.

“Just don't be _too_ loud,” Ford lines himself up and _pushes_. Stan sucks in a breath so hard he almost chokes.

Cocks are always _more_ than fingers. It's stupid, but somehow no matter how many fingers get shoved up his ass, Stan still gets a flash of panic at the one big, hot, hard _thing_. It doesn't matter who.

Then it's over and Stan sighs. He folds up his arms and rests his forehead against them as his body shivers and relaxes.

“ _Oh,_ ” Ford says. Arms wrap around Stan’s waist as Ford drapes his whole body over Stan again. “Mine,” Ford whispers and shoves his face into Stan's greasy hair.

“Ah!” Stan bites his lip to keep quiet when Ford's hips jerk.

“Mine,” Ford's arms tighten until it's almost uncomfortable. “Always.” Stan’s eyelids flutter and he whines when Ford's hips snap deeper and harder.

“Ford,” Stan pants desperately.

“Sh,” Ford starts to move slowly and deeply. “You need to be, _hah_ , quiet.” One of Ford's hands come up to grope Stan’s chest. “Next week I'll have Fiddleford take Sherman.” Ford pinches a nipple when he finds it and Stan moans loudly. “Sh,” Ford grabs a fistful of hair and pulls. “All weekend. Just you screaming on my cock,” Ford leans back so that his hips push Stan further into the bed. “Anywhere. _Every_ where. Until you can't move,” Stan can barely hear Ford's low promises over his noisy panting.

“Ford,” he whines.

“Until all you can do, _uh_ ,” Ford grunts and starts to move faster. “Is warm my cock.”

“Mmn!” Stan muffles a scream when Ford switches up angles.

“Because you're mine.” And Ford _bites_ Stan’s shoulder a hell of a lot harder than he has too and _fucks_.

It's a lot. It's always a lot, but this time it feels like _more._ Maybe it's because Ford eating him out confused his ass about what goes up there. Maybe Ford's just pent up and angry and fucking it out. It doesn't matter. Stan doesn't need to think about it, he just needs to breathe because it feels like Ford's dick is taking up too much space. Stan keeps panting but he can’t suck in enough air, and each breath gets punched back out in a gut-deep groan.

“Quiet!” Ford growls.

“ _Ahn_ ,” Stan bites down. His teeth barely graze the sheets. “ _Oh, hah, hah_ ,” he can’t breathe at all when he shoves his face into the mattress. “Fu- _augh_!” Stan shouts when he comes up for air with a gasp.

“ _Quiet_!” Ford rams into Stan hard. He grabs Stan's hips so that Stan can't pull away. Stan whines and his ass spasm and that makes Ford snarl and snap his hips. “If you can’t be quiet,” Ford pants. “I’ll stop.”

“No!” Stan whines. “Don’t. Please!” Ford can’t stop; Stan doesn’t know what will happen to him if Ford stops. “Please, Ford.”

“Sh,” Ford rocks their hips, not thrusting, just moving them both back and forth together. Stan wants to cry. Ford moans and his next words sound like they’re forced through his teeth. “Just be good and be quiet, okay?” Ford releases Stan’s bruised hips to run his hands across Stan’s back and sides. Stan nods, bites his arm, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Sh,” Ford shushes him and Stan doesn’t know if he’s reminding Stan to be quiet or if he’s asking Stan to relax. Ford starts thrusting again, but slowly and that’s almost worse. Stan is already on edge and Ford's gonna take forever.

Stan whines again; he tries to shove back and hurry Ford up.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ford groans and resumes his earlier position of lining his fingers almost on Stan's bruises. “Okay,” he says. “Quiet,” he reminds Stan, which is a good call, because when Ford picks up speed Stan wants to scream. Instead, he bites down harder, hard enough to leave deep, red and blue marks. Sound still escapes him in muffled groans and whines that mix with Ford's grunts. Stan knows he's gonna blow soon and he hopes Ford isn't long, either.

“I love you,” Ford’s panting like he’s close. “God, Stan.”

It’s not long after that before Ford slams himself into Stan and freezes to let his knot swell. He chomps down on Stan’s shoulder again and snarls as he cums. Stan groans from the bite and the _full_ feeling of Ford’s hot cum. He squirms, and he reaches down to get himself off. It takes almost nothing before Stan’s chewing his arm as he adds to the mess of slick and precum on the pillow under his hips.

“Ah,” Ford sighs and collapses over Stan’s back. “Oh, Stan,” Ford nuzzles into Stan's neck and sniffs at his hair again.

“Gross,” Stan says when he can breathe again. Ford huffs hotly into Stan's neck.

“What?” Ford grunts when he shift and the knot pulls.

“ _Ah_. You,” Stan hums and settles into the bed, shifting to get more comfortable while they wait.

“Me?” Ford upsets Stan’s careful adjustments by rolling them onto their sides. They both groan at the pull of the knot and the clenching of Stan's ass.

“Shit, yeah, you,” Stan squirms to get comfortable again. “Sniffin’ my greasy hair.”

“You’re the one leaking everywhere,” Ford mumbles. He delicately brushes Stan’s hair away from his shoulder. “Sorry,” Ford runs his fingers over the stinging bite marks on Stan’s shoulder that Stan is noticing now that he isn’t panting to cum. Stan shrugs; Ford’s fingers move with it.

“It’s alright,” Stan says as Ford kisses the marks.

“You’ll have to wear real shirts,” Ford smirks into Stan’s skin.

“Huh?” Stan looks over his shoulder. “Why?”

“You don’t want Sherman to see these,” Ford says.

“Oh,” Stan laughs. “No, he’s fine. He’s seen hickies before.” Ford’s hand that has been resting on Stan’s bicep tightens into a vice.

“Stanley,” Ford says flatly.

“Sorry, I forgot.” Stan reaches up and grabs Ford’s hand. “Let’s just, I dunno,” Stan tugs until Ford lets go and Stan can pull the hand against his chest. “Please?” Ford is tense and silent behind him before he blows out a heavy breath.

“Okay,” Ford says.

“Cool,” Stan relaxes into his brother and wiggles experimentally.

“ _Agh_!”

“Don't wanna let me go, huh?” Stan laughs when Ford swears and grabs Stan's hip to stop him from tugging on the knot.

“Never,” Ford says. “I would keep you right here forever if I could.”  

“Who would do your laundry?” Stan asks.

“We’d figure something out,” Ford mutters.

“What, I just waddle around with you stuck in my ass?” Stan snorts and squeezes his ass to make a point.

“Stop that!” Ford hisses and grabs Stan's dick.

“Shit,” Stan swears when Ford gives it a dry tug.

“See?” Ford does it again and Stan smacks his hand. “Hey!”

“Not my fault your fat knot is stuck!” Stan tries to prop himself up on his elbow.

“Stop!” Ford groans again and slaps Stan’s hip. “You weren't complaining earlier!”

“I was horny!” Stan says and flails an arm to swat at Ford. “Yer lucky I can't turn around!” Ford tucks close to Stan’s back to avoid Stan’s clumsy reach.

“Stop moving!” Ford whines and he tangles his legs with Stan’s. Stan grumbles but lets himself fall limply to the mattress again.

“Too tired to kick yer ass anyway,” he grouses. Ford hooks an arm over Stan’s side in a hug. Stan considers pinching him.

“Mhm,” Ford hums. Stan scowls at the wall and listens to Ford breathe. Ford yawns hotly in Stan’s ear.

“You need to brush yer teeth,” Stan wrinkles his nose. “Geez, you and Sherms.”

“You need to wash your hair,” Ford says.

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” Stan parrots back to his brother.

“I like the way you smell,” Ford says like it’s not weird.

“Like fish and sweat?” Stan drawls. Ford hums again.

“Like home,” Ford says. “I missed you. Ten years you weren’t there, and I couldn’t sleep.” Ford’s voice gets thick. “I missed you so much.”

“Me, too,” Stan says after a moment.

“God,” Ford shoves his forehead into Stan’s shoulder. “Ten years.”

“And yer teeth didn’t fall out,” Stan says. Ford inhales sharply.

“You ass,” he chuckles. “Alright. I’ll brush my teeth while you change the sheets.”

“Aw, come on!” Stan whines.

“And shower,” Ford adds sliding one hand between Stan’s ass cheeks to poke at his sore, stretched hole. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah?” Stan’s face burns as he squirms from the touch. “Whatever. Like yer any better.”

“Hm,” Ford grunts and then slowly but forcefully pulls out.

“ **_Oh_ **,” Stan groans loudly. “Fuck, warn a guy.” Ford grunts. He rolls away and shimmies off the bed.

“I’m going to brush my teeth and shower,” Ford stretches his arms above his head with another yawn. His dick hangs, wet and soft, and his body is splotchy with fading blushes.

“I call the john,” Stan sits up carefully. He’s starting to feel all the bruises Ford left with his hands and mouth, and his ass is sore. “Ugh,” Stan grimaces when he stands and something makes it’s wet way down is thigh. “Gross. Ford, where’s my robe?” Stan scratches his ass where the slick and cum have started to dry and itch. “Ford?” Ford has frozen mid stretch and is staring at Stan with a look he usually reserves for his books. “You okay?”

“I change my mind,” Ford says. “Turn around.”

“Ford, you okay?” Stan’s hands come up like he’s gonna push Ford away when Ford advances toward him with that terrifying focus. “Fo-- _mph_!” Ford grabs Stan’s face with both hands and slams his mouth into Stan’s. Stan pushes at Ford’s shoulders.

“Stanley,” Ford pants when he lets Stan push him back. “Get on the bed.”

“Are you serious?” Stan gapes. “Are you still horny?”

“Please,” Ford kisses his neck gently. “Trust me.” Stan moans.

“Jesus. Okay, but I really can’t go another round,” Stan warns and turns like Ford asked. “Ack!”

“Like that,” Ford shoves Stan so that he’s bent over the bed with his knees barely touching the hardwood floor.

There’s a moment that Stan is afraid. Panic seizes him and he clutches the filthy sheets again like a lifeline. He knows Ford won’t hurt him. He knows Ford isn’t going to pull out a belt, but Stan can’t breathe until Ford spreads his legs apart and Stan hears Ford’s knees hit the floor.

“W-” Stan clears his throat to cover the false start. “Whatcha doin’?”

“You’re always telling me to clean up my messes,” Ford says. He pulls Stan’s ass open. Ford’s breath is hot against the cool slick and jizz and sweat sticking to Stan’s pubes.

“Uh,” Stan says. “Shit! Ford!” Stan grits his teeth when he feels Ford’s tongue against his asshole the second time that night. “That’s disgusting!” Stan tries to pull away but Ford grabs his hips again. Stan is going to have a lot of bruises.

“Hold still,” Ford whispers. He moans when Stan shivers and Stan’s asshole clenches.

“Ford,” Stan whines. “Gross!”

“You like it,” Ford says and licks at Stan’s rim. Stan squirms; he’s too sore and sensitive and confused. Ford shoves his face into Stans’ ass and latches his mouth around Stan’s asshole and _sucks_.

“ _AH_!” Stan’s head snaps up with a shout as Ford pushes his tongue into Stan’s loose ass. “Ford! Ford, stop.” Stan grits his teeth so hard they creak. Ford ignores him. “Shit!” Stan’s back arches and accidentally shoves his ass into Ford’s face.

“Mph!” Ford grunts and Stan can feel it _in his ass._  

“Stop,” Stan squirms again but Ford just takes that as a challenge to shove his tongue in deeper, before Ford pulls away with a gross, wet noise to lick a hard, broad stripe from Stan’s balls and through his crack.

“Hm,” Ford laps along the same stripe. “You’re such a mess,” Ford’s voice is rough and makes Stan more nervous than he already is.

“Ford,” Stan whimpers. Stan jerks forward with a shout when Ford sucks at his taint and balls. “I'll kick you in the face,” Stan warns through his panting. “Ford!” Stan’s body jerks again when Ford ignores him. “Knock it _off_!” Stan kicks blindly out behind him.

“ _Gah_ !” Stan foot hits something warm and hard. He twists and slides to the ground with his back against the bed and panting; he squeezes his knees together. “What the _hell_ , Stanley!?” Ford’s rubbing his shoulder.

“I warned you!” Stan snapped.

“I was being nice!” Ford pulls his hand away and pokes at the reddening spot.

“It’s gross!” Stan tries not to think about how his wet ass; he tries not to think about how many things have been _in_ his ass.

“You’re supposed to like it.” Ford glares at Stan and grumbles.

“I’m--you shoved your _tongue_ up my _ass_!” Stan gapes. He thinks this is what people mean when they say “scandalized.”

“So?” Ford decides that his arm will be fine and he focuses on Stan again.

“It’s gross!” Stan says again.

“You like it.” Ford counters and shuffles forward on his knees. “Don’t you?” They both freeze when Stan flinches away from Ford’s hands. “Oh,” Ford says flatly after a moment.

“Sorry,” Stan mumbles.

“No, I get it,” Ford grunts as he stands. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Wait, Ford!” Stan scrambles to stand. “Shit!” He stumbles and slips against the bed. Stan hisses as his ass and everything connected to it twinges.  
“Stan?” Ford, even though he’s pissy, is quick to grab Stan’s shoulder to steady him. It just puts pressure on the numerous bruises and bitemarks.

“Ow,” Stan says. “Ow, ow, _ow_.”

“What’s wrong?” Ford asks.

“Ugh,” Stan grimaces and slowly straightens. “You fucked me, dumbass.” Stan smirks tightly at his brother. “Kinda sore.”

“Did I hurt you?” Ford asks.

“Nah,” Stan rolls his eyes. “Just a coupla love bites.”

“You’re okay?” Ford asks as he traces his fingers over the puffy, red mark of his teeth.

“Yeah,” Stan lies. “I’m fine.” He pats Ford’s hand sharply. “Where the hell is my robe? I gotta get some laundry done.”

“You don’t--I was kidding,” Ford says awkwardly.

“Well, I need a shower,” Stan shrugs. “Ah, fuck it. Not like it’s nothin’ Sherms ain’t seen before.”

“Stanley,” Ford says sharply. Stan ignores him. He feels reactive, like a live wire, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. He hopes Ford can take the hint and leave him alone as he goes for the door.

Ford doesn’t take the hint; he grabs Stan again and Stan goes off, whirling on Ford with a closed fist that never connects, because Ford grabs it and Stan and takes them both to the hard floor. They land with Ford restraining Stan’s fist behind his back. Stan can barely get his other arm around to keep his head from knocking into the floor.

“Stanley!” Ford barks. Stan shakes, tries to tug free of Ford’s grip, but Ford’s grasp is huge and strong and he has Stan pinned at the hips, too. “Stanley, what is wrong with you?”

“Fuck you!” Stan stops fighting, but still growls. “I’m gross; get off me.”

“No,” Ford says flatly. “You’re acting irrationally.”

“Get off!” Stan screws his eyes shut and tries to breathe evenly to prove to Ford how much of an obsessive nutcase Ford is being right now, but Stan can’t seem to get in a satisfying breath. “I’m gross,” he repeats.

(“Filthy,” Stan can feel the disgust in the wet heat of the words. “Clean it up.” He feels the huge, rough hands wipe something cold and slimy on his inner thigh, making the coarse hair there stick together uncomfortably. “Store opens in ten minutes.” Pops reminds him.)

“Talk to me,” Ford is says. Stan feels dizzy to the tips of his toes as he blinks and glares at the floorboards.

“Off,” Stan whispers.

“What?” Stan can feel Ford lean closer to hear him. The pressure against him, against his back and ass, makes something in Stan seize up and solidify in Stan’s throat.

“Off!” Stan shouts, but it cracks, like an ice cube, with a pathetic squeak. Stan’s ribcage is being pummeled, caught between Stan’s angry fist of a heart and the hardwood floor. When he tries to shift to relieve the pressure, he can feel the hot body behind-over him and his breath stutters, catches in his throat. It’s too dry and he can’t swallow it down. His chest is heaving and he’s getting air but his throat keeps shutting like something’s trying to crawl down it.

(Pops groans when he finally shoves his dick _into_ Stan’s throat.)

Stan coughs, making his ribs beat themselves against the floor as he tries to clear his airways of _nothing._ He knows there is _nothing_ , but his throat keeps spasming and closing against _nothing_.

“Sor--” Stan starts to apologize. He doesn’t know why. He chokes. He panics.

(Stan gags and there's spit everywhere and he’s crying now, too. He can’t breathe and he’s terrified and he’ll do whatever Pops wants if he can just _breathe._ )

“Stanley!” Ford shouts as Stan starts to vomit half digested macaroni noodles and watery bile.

(“Disgusting.” Stan tries no to gag on the stench of his own vomit as he tries to scrub it out of the shitty shag carpet.)

Stan doesn’t fight it when he’s turned over to stare up at the cieling. (There are cobwebs and he needs to get those before they get too dusty.) Large hands cup his face and he can hear noise like a voice.

“Stan? Stan, what happened?” Ford asks, thick, deft fingers tilting Stan’s face in different directions as Stan thinks about the sour taste of bile on his tongue. “Stanley?”

“Water?” Stan asks. “I need water.”

“Oh!” Ford’s warm (hot) hands disappear and Stan notices that there isn’t a body pinning him to the floor anymore. “Yes, I’ll...I’ll be right back.” Ford hesitates. “You’ll be okay? If I just...I’ll only be gone a moment.”

“Yeah,” Stan pushes himself up to a half sitting position, feeling his empty stomach roil. “I’m...I’m okay.” Stan listens for the bedroom door, for the creak _one-two_ of the faulty stairs. He has the irrational, childish desire to scurry under the bed while Ford is gone. (He can’t find us here.) Stan doesn’t hide, of course. He’s a man, and men don’t hide. He waits, even though his skin feels tight and his head feels light, until Ford returns with a glass of water for Stan to grab with a shaking hand. Stan swishes the water around in his mouth before he swallows with a hesitant grimace.

“Are you okay?” Ford asks. Stan drains the rest of the glass before finally looking up at his brother.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, dinner musta not settled right,” Stan says with a weak grin. He's suddenly very tired.

“Hm,” Ford plucks the glass from Stan’s hand.

“‘S fine,” Stan flaps a hand in Ford's direction. “Guess I really need that shower, huh?”

“Indeed,” Ford sighs. “Stanley, I know I'm not exactly a people person and, I'll admit, I'm not good at this, but,” Ford takes a deep breath. “I know you're lying to me.”

“...I really need a shower, Ford,” Stan says. “And, the floor. I gotta clean the floor.”

“Can’t that wait?” Ford asks. “For tomorrow?” Stan considers it; he’s tired.

“No,” he says, finally. “It’ll get too gross.”

“Let me help,” Ford offers. After a long moment, Stan says:

“Okay.”

 


End file.
